Sometimes I want to break my rules. Not often, I worry that I’m missing out. I’ve suppressed the queer urge to get dressed in gloves and a touque and brave public transit and plant myself in a mall to be accosted by grumpy shoppers and assailed by Christmas music.

But more than that urge, I’ve suddenly been taken with the desire to have a Gingerbread cookie. I’ve got hot chocolate. And it’s cold and crisp and it’s after 3 pm, so the sun has set and it’s black as midnight already. But I want a gingerbread man. I want a gingerbread man so bad I’m nearly ready to shuffle off into the cold and go find me one.

Yes, I might very well ask my Fetcher, his name is Mark — I’m not so rude or so reclusive to call him Fetcher to his face, although he knows I call him that — to go pick me up some gingerbread cookies. But he has left already for the holidays. He’s gone off to begrudge his family somewhere. For Christmas, I got him a pair of shoes. A nice pair. It’s a bit of a gag since he’s my Fetcher, but he also really needed a pair. And I think he was appreciative that I thought of him and got him something he could use.

Which leaves me here alone in the dark with my hot chocolate and without my Gingerbread man. But it’s cold and I’m tired. Perhaps I could just cover some toast in some butter and a little sugar and some cinnamon. It won’t be quite the same but it might do.

SS